


there's more than diplomacy for you, dear

by LiveSincerely



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Davey gets soaked and Jack flips his lid, Getting Together, Hurt Davey Jacobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Kelly, Self-Indulgent, hello em dash my old friend, no period-typical homophobia because i said so, other newsies are in this but I don't want to crowd their tags, that's it that's the whole fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveSincerely/pseuds/LiveSincerely
Summary: Specs comes barreling back into the room.“It’s Jack!” he pants. “He’s back from Pulitzer’s and he must’a heard already because he looksmad as all hell—”Jack enters like a thunderstorm rolling in over the horizon. His jaw is clenched so hard that it’s making the muscle in his neck twitch and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. His expression could have been carved out of stone.“Boys,” he growls out, in a voice too flat and too even to be masking anything other than incredible anger, “I’m gonna need ya to give us the room.”Or:Davey gets soaked. Jack freaks out.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 47
Kudos: 265
Collections: I love these, THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH





	there's more than diplomacy for you, dear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinyjamspoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyjamspoons/gifts).



When they make it back to the Lodging House that evening a literal Wave of Silence falls over the rest of the newsies, which is honestly a bit much.

“Told you so,” Les mutters. Davey flicks him in the ear.

“Okay, it’s not _that_ bad,” he huffs after a long moment of breathless quiet. “I’m fine.”

Racetrack is the first to find his voice. “Jesus, Davey, what the fuck?” he says lurching forward, face tight with concern.

Davey sweeps a hand over his thighs, brushing away some dirt that’s still clinging to his pants. “Some guys thought I’d make an easy target,” he explains. “Jumped me in the alley behind the pharmacy.”

“Are ya okay?” Albert interjects. “What’d they take?”

Davey waves a hand. “They only got a couple of pennies,” he reassures them. “Les had all our earnings and I made him run ahead and hide.”

“Did ya get a good look at ‘em?” Blink asks, cracking his knuckles. “I got time to bust a few heads.”

“Not sure,” Davey says. “There were four of them—from Brooklyn, I think. It looked like they were headed back towards the bridge. They still had a bunch of papes they hadn’t managed to sell and they weren’t in the colors, so I think they mighta been some of the new guys Spot said he’d took up but—”

Albert’s mouth flattens into a thin, harsh line. “You’re sayin’ some other newsies did this to ya?”

“Spot won’t tolerate nothin’ like that from his boys, ‘specially not no new guys,” Racetrack says confidently. “We’s square with Brooklyn now, he and Jack shook on it and everything—” 

He falters mid-sentence.

“Oh, shit. _Oh, shit_ , Jack!

Davey doesn’t understand where Race is going with this, but it seems he’s the only one: everyone around him adopts a similar wild, wide-eyed expression. Then there’s a rush of sound as they all start talking at once.

_“—well I’m not gonna do it—“_

_“—lose his fucking mind—“_

_“—I’m too young to die—“_

_“—not on your life—“_

_“—where’s Crutchie when ya need him—“_

_“—dead men walking—“_

“Maybe he won’t notice?” That last comment comes from Romeo. The others turn and look at him with various levels of incredulity.

“...yeah, that was stupid,” Romeo says, deflating.

“Shuddup, all a youse,” Racetrack says, holding a hand up for quiet. “Here’s what we’re gonna do: we get Mouth here fixed up best we can, yeah? Jack’s still at Pulitzer’s, so we’s got some time. Then, when Jack gets back we break it to him gentle, okay? _Gentle_. We’re talking damage control, get me?”

Davey watches this unfold with something like a cross between bemusement and annoyance. It’s certainly nice to be reminded that his friends are always ready to take up for him, but he can’t help but feel they’re overreacting: he’s more battered, dirty, and sore than he is truly injured. 

Then there’s all the fuss about Jack.

He’s still not sure what everyone’s so worked up about. Newsies get into scrapes all the time, it comes with the job—what makes this any different? Sure, Jack will be mad that he’s hurt, but then Jack doesn’t like it when any of them get hurt. Frankly, Davey thinks he’ll be more upset about having to meet with Spot about the bunch of scabs in his midst: managing in-fighting between the boroughs is always a pain.

But he doesn’t get a chance to protest. Racetrack and Albert usher him upstairs and into one of the dormitories, one at each elbow like a pair of particularly scrappy bodyguards, with Les, Specs, and Romeo trailing close behind. They get Davey settled in, grabbing a stool from somewhere for him to sit up on.

“Maybe you should lie down?” Albert offers, and he’s actually wringing his hands, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. “I feel like you should be lyin’ down.”

“Albert, I’m fine, honest—”

“We gotta clean his face up,” Racetrack asserts. “If Jack sees him all bloody like this he’s gonna flip his shit.”

“I’ll check if Kloppman can spare us some water,” Specs says, jumping to his feet.

“And get some rags!” Race calls after him. “Clean ones!”

“On it!”

“Guys, I really don’t think all this is necessary—”

“You should wrap his ribs,” Romeo says, “so that if they’s busted up, they heal right.”

“How do we know if they’s busted up?” Albert wonders.

“You could try asking me,” Davey says dryly.

“Do ya ribs feel busted up?” Albert asks him, utterly serious, the sarcasm missing him by a mile.

Davey rolls his eyes. “My ribs are fine.”

They mull this over for a second. Then Albert turns to Les, who is sitting on the lower bunk of the nearest bed and asks, “Are his ribs busted up?”

Les considers this, his legs kicking back and forth as he thinks. “They definitely got some good hits in,” he says decisively. “He was holding his left side like it hurt real bad.”

“You didn’t even see what happened,” Davey says, exasperated.

“We should go ahead and wrap ‘em, just to be safe,” Racetrack says.

_“Oh my god—”_

Specs comes barreling back into the room, a towel thrown over one shoulder and a bowl in his hands. He skids to such an abrupt stop that a bit of water slops over the side and onto the floor.

“It’s Jack!” he pants. “He’s back from Pulitzer’s and he must’a heard already because he looks _mad as all hell—”_

Jack enters like a thunderstorm rolling in over the horizon. His jaw is clenched so hard that it’s making the muscle in his neck twitch and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. His expression could have been carved out of stone. 

“Boys,” he growls out, in a voice too flat and too even to be masking anything other than incredible anger, “I’m gonna need ya to give us the room.”

The others quickly file out, though Specs has the good sense to leave the supplies he’s gathered behind. Jack stops Racetrack in the doorway, murmuring something too quiet for Davey to hear, then jerks his head—a clear dismissal. 

And then it’s just the two of them.

“Just so you know,” Davey starts, already attempting to pacify, “this is really not as big a deal as they’re making it out to be.”

“Racetrack is gonna walk Les home,” Jack says instead of responding. “That way he don’t have to sit around waiting.”

Davey frowns. “Waiting through what? No, Jack, it’s fine, I’m fine.”

Jack moves closer, standing so that he’s right in front of the stool Davey’s perched on, positioned directly between the vee of Davey’s thighs. A warm, calloused hand cups around Davey’s jaw and gently tips his head back; Davey's heart stutters and skips in his chest. Jack says nothing, but his eyes are molten as they scan across Davey’s face, taking in the cuts and bruises, the rapidly-forming black eye and the freshly-split lip.

He wipes a thumb delicately across the corner of Davey’s mouth and it comes away red. Davey blinks at this, surprised. He hadn’t realized he was still bleeding.

“I’m gonna have to disagree with you, Dave,” Jack eventually says, in a voice like cracking pavement, “because this is anything but _fine_.”

“Jack—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Jack interrupts flatly, and Davey’s mouth clicks shut mid-protest. “ _Don’t_ , okay? You just sit there and— Just sit there and let me look at ya.”

Jack reaches for the supplies Specs had gathered—he wets a rag, then rings it back out. He starts slowly and methodically cleaning the grime from Davey’s face, wiping away every last hint of blood and dirt until he’s satisfied. 

When that’s finished, he begins taking stock of Davey’s more obvious injuries. He checks Davey's lip again, to see if it's started scabbing over. Next, he prods at the skin around Davey’s eye, then runs careful fingers around the high point of his cheekbone, the edge of his nose, the ridge of his brow. Davey grimaces when Jack brushes against a particularly tender spot, but otherwise submits patiently to the examination. He’s starting to realize that this is about something more than an unfortunate scrap.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a shiner,” Jack announces at long last, “but I don’t think nothin’s broken.”

“That’s what I figured,” Davey agrees, nodding slightly. “I told the guys that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed but they wouldn’t listen. Honestly, they were about to start wrapping my ribs _just in case_ before you got here...”

Jack’s nostrils flare. Davey regrets opening his big mouth. 

“And why would they be worried about your ribs?”

“Well—”

But Jack’s already moving. He gets a handful of buttons undone before Davey has the wherewithal to stop him, and then it’s too late. He wrestles Davey’s shirt open, then stills, jaw tightening.

Davey hasn’t had a chance to check himself over, but he doesn’t really need to—his aching torso and the expression on Jack’s face tell him all that he needs to know. 

“Jack, look at me,” Davey says.

“I am looking,” Jack snarls. “Oh, _believe me,_ I’m looking.”

“No, you’re looking at the bruises on my chest,” Davey corrects. “Look at me.”

Jack sucks in a rattling breath. He’s a long line of barely restrained fury, his hands shaking where they’re still fisted in Davey’s shirt; Davey’s own come up to cover them, and Jack’s grip relaxes slightly under the heat of his palms.

“ _Look at me_ , Jackie.”

Jack finally meets his eyes. This close Davey can see every last emotion swirling in those depths, and the intensity of it all threatens to take his breath away. 

“Jackie, I’m okay,” Davey murmurs. “I’m fine, this is nothing, really, I had worse during the strike.”

“It’s not nothin’,” Jack snaps back. “It’s not _fucking_ nothin’. They told me it was four to one, they told me it was _other newsies_ , that they targeted you for ya earnings—”

He trails off, too angry to finish. Davey waits patiently for Jack to gather his thoughts, thumbing small circles into the backs of his hands to soothe him.

“No one should ever put their hands on you like that,” Jack continues, once he’s able. “Just thinking about it makes me wanna tear outta my skin.”

His expression shifts, taking on a more murderous edge.

“No, actually, it makes me wanna tear _them_ outta _they’s_ skins. God, they better’ve had the good sense to hightail it to Jersey after that stunt, because if I get my hands on 'em—if they ever so much as _step a toe_ across the bridge again—I’ll make 'em sorry they ever even looked at ya wrong.”

“You will do no such thing,” Davey lightly chides. “You’re the leader of Manhattan, the president of the union. You’ve got to do this the diplomatic way: we’ll set up a meeting with Spot, just like we would anytime we’re having issues with another borough. You know you can’t just go in swinging anymore—that’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Not when it’s you,” Jack says quietly. Davey’s heart skips a nervous beat in his chest. “It’s always different when it’s you. Christ, Davey, don’t you know that by now?”

Davey can’t believe what he’s hearing. For a second he wonders if he’d hit his head harder than he thought; Jack can’t actually be saying what he thinks he’s saying. 

“You...?”

Jack’s eyes dart away. “Yeah. You?”

Davey swallows. “Yeah.”

There’s a moment where they can’t quite look at each other, both processing the other’s confession. Then Davey lets out a little laugh, and the tension melts away.

“You know, Racetrack tried to warn me that you would, oh how did he put it, ‘flip your shit,’” Davey teases. 

“Yeah, well, Racer’s too nosy for his own good,” Jack grumbles, but he can’t hide the smile that’s pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Everyone else seemed to agree with him,” Davey continues slyly, “so whatever it was that gave you away, it must’ve been pretty obvious.”

“Then what does that make you, huh? Since you missed the _obvious_.”

“Lucky,” Davey answers simply. “Lucky that you care so much. Lucky that you…”

Davey doesn’t finish, but the implication hangs in the air, unspoken but real. Jack lifts Davey’s hand up and places a kiss to the inside of his wrist; Davey wonders if he can feel the way his pulse is fluttering through that brief contact. Then Jack shifts, both hands coming up to curl around either side of Davey’s face and reel him in even closer, pressing their foreheads together in wonderful intimacy. Davey’s own hands move to rest against Jack’s chest, his eyes drifting shut.

“Spend the night?” Jack asks after a few moments of comfortable silence. “Not to _do_ anything, I mean we _only just said_ — I just need ya to be close by for a while longer.”

“Of course I will, “ Davey promises into the scant space between them. “But Jack, I really am okay. I’m gonna be fine.”

“Yeah?” Jack whispers.

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> *smacks the roof of this fic* look at all the self-indulgence you can fit in this thing!
> 
> Inspired in part by a tumblr post, that the archive won’t let me link. I was trying to wait until after I had completed some other projects (namely the Letterman Jacket fic) before writing this but @tinyjamspoons came and egged me on in an ask, and that's really all it takes with these things... *sigh* i am weak.
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr @livesincerely


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